Vices
by orbythesea
Summary: What they don't tell you about law school is that sometimes you just stop sleeping. Alicia/Will, Georgetown.


There are things that no one tells you about law school. Everyone talks about time management and insane workload. They warn you about insecurity and the lack of feedback, about cut-throat competition, cite-checking and centuries-old cases. What they don't tell you about law school is that sometimes you just stop sleeping. Insomnia stalks law school campuses like Scalia's proverbial horror movie ghoul, rising again the very moment that you think it's finally dead and buried. Everyone deals with it differently. Some people eat, some take pills or smoke pot, some develop a predilection for infomercials or sex or porn.

Alicia runs.

She runs past late-night tourists on the Mall, past homeless men and grass and monuments and back home again. It helps, sometimes. Other times she gets back and sits on the steps outside her building, breathing hard and fast, body worn but mind still going. She told Peter about it, once. He told her not to be stupid, to call him, next time. Told her not to get raped. She did call, the next time, and he didn't pick up. Now, she just doesn't tell him.

She wishes she smoked, on nights like this. She thinks it might make her cool, sitting out on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. She's never done it. Has never been brave enough to do it. (Has never been brave enough to do anything.)

She clasps her hands together above her head and stretches, every muscle in her body protesting as she tries to push them just that much further. It's almost three and she has class at eight and the breeze against her sweat-damp skin makes her shiver. It feels good. Like being alive.

"What are you doing up so late?"

She jumps at the familiar voice, presses her hand against her heart as if to keep it from jumping out of her chest. "Couldn't sleep." She smiles at Will, can never not smile at him. "You?" Will ducks his head, embarrassed, and, well, she should have known. Carla. Carla or Laurie, or that 2L on the fourth floor, or-

"Amy," he says. "Not- not for that. She got _finally_ got an offer from Shearson so she was pretty drunk. I just made sure she got home okay." She doesn't believe it, and he must see that because he sinks down on the stoop next to her, nudges her shoulder with his own. "I was a perfect gentleman. Really."

She nods, stretches her legs, toes pointing out towards the street. "Good for Amy," she murmurs, closing her eyes. Good for Amy and for Carla and Laurie and _God_ what is that 2L's name?

"Don't you have Secured Transactions in the morning?"

She blinks, then nods. "Eight," she confirms. "I don't want to think about it."

"Yeah." He's quiet for a moment. "I'm not a bad guy, you know."

Alicia turns to look at him. "You- I never thought that you were."

"No, I mean- Amy. There's nothing- "

"I know," she assures him, but it's empty. She looks down at her left hand, at the diamond that somehow manages to sparkle in the dark. "It's just- " She shakes her head. "I should get to bed."

"No," he whispers. His knee is pressed against hers now. His jeans are soft and worn. Comfortable. "Tell me."

"Do you ever wonder why we- " She takes a deep breath, but she can't will herself to finish the question. She's not sure what the question even is. Why we never got together? Why we never gave it a shot? Why we're graduating next month and we've never even talked about it?

He doesn't push her, though. Just presses his knee against hers and reaches for her hand. "All the time," he whispers. At least, she thinks that's what he says. His words get swallowed up by the wind and a passing car. "Peter," he adds.

"Yes." She smiles, but she feels suddenly so profoundly lonely. Empty. She shivers.

"Yeah." His knee is still pressed against hers and he slides an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

"My alarm's going off in four hours," she whispers.

"Yeah," he whispers, but he doesn't let her go and she doesn't want him to.

"We always could, you know." She starts to protest and he shakes his head, talking quickly now. "Just once, I mean, for law school's sake. Before we graduate and you go back to Chicago and- "

"Peter," she supplies, unsure if she's completing or or countering his argument.

"Yeah."

His arm is still around her and his leg is still pressed against hers and she wishes that she was a different person, a braver person. She wishes she was the kind of person who smoked cigarettes on the stoop or got drunk in the middle of the week or fought with her fiancé when he condescended to her. She rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.

"Do you think- " he hesitates, twisting a bit of her hair up in his fingers. "If you hadn't met Peter, do you think- "

"But I did meet Peter," she whispers. "And you- " _And you met every woman within a five block radius_, is what she wants to say. "I love him," she says. "Am in love with him." She doesn't know if she's clarifying or correcting, doesn't know if it's a distinction without a difference.

"What's that like?" he asks. His voice is gentle and inquisitive.

"It's- It's wanting to see someone else open a Christmas present more than you want to open your own," she says, after a moment. "It's picturing a future that's about more than yourself, that's- I don't know. You've never felt it?"

He doesn't say anything. She lifts her head to watch him, really _watch_ him. The way his adam's apple bobs a bit when he swallows, the way his eyes are soft and dark, saying nothing and everything and suddenly she knows the answer. He brushes his fingers over her cheek. "You should try to sleep," he whispers. "And I should go. I should- "

She _knows_ and knowledge makes her brave. She leans into his touch. "I'm still awake," she whispers, tilting her head just enough to catch the side of his hand with her lips. It makes her so, so brave.

He shakes his head. "I don't- I don't want to ruin those things for you," he breathes. "The Christmas mornings and the pictures of the future and- "

She swallows, hard. "Okay." His hand is still against her cheek and his leg is still pressed against hers and she can smell scotch on his breath. He's never felt farther away. "It's late."

"And you've got Secured Transactions at eight," he adds. "So I'm gonna- " He releases her, pushes himself up. "Come on, go in and get some sleep."

He offers her both hands and she takes them, lets him pull her up. He pretends to groan at her weight and she laughs and then suddenly his hand is brushing past her cheek again, sliding into her hair and pulling her into a kiss.

She opens her mouth to him, fueled by instinct and insomnia and knowledge. His free hand moves to the small of her back and she wraps her arms around his neck and there's nothing between them now. He presses her against the railing, trapping her there on the stoop and she whimpers against his mouth, doesn't want him to stop. He does stop, though, he releases her with a curse muttered under his breath.

"Will," she whispers, and she reaches for him but he shakes his head.

"Alicia," he whispers, running a hand over the back of his head. "I can't." He shakes his head again, looks down to find his footing as he backs down the steps. "I can't- "

"I know." She doesn't know what to do with her hands. "I'm gonna- " She jerks her head towards the door. "You're still- tomorrow afternoon, you'll still explain corporate tax to me, right?" She folds her arms over her chest, hugs herself against the breeze.

"Anytime," he whispers. He looks like he might say something more but he turns then and runs off in the direction of his apartment.

The guy in 1-A opens his window and cigarette smoke wafts out into the night.

She is the bravest person she knows.


End file.
